Spiders or Snakes?
by ResidentBunburyist
Summary: Heads in the fridge were not John's breaking point. Corrosive chemicals on his possessions, he could tolerate. But the tarantula is too much. So John the eternally unfettered is afraid of spiders? Interesting... (Of course, don't ask Sherlock to take the case with the asp in the ducts. Snakes, why did it have to be... oh, never mind, he doesn't get the reference anyway.)


**Author's notes: Just a bit of silliness thought up over an argument between a few friends over which was worse- spiders or snakes? (let me tell you, the small amount of research I had to do for tarantula care was excruciating. Those close-up pictures of their faces? Awful.) **

**A bit of a warm-up in the shallow end of talentless humour before I take the final plunge into writing fanfiction from whence I can ne'er return. Apologies in advance for a lack of Brit-picking. Any and all comments, critique, and what have you is welcome. (Though you may want to save it for a piece with a bit more literary and intellectual merit than this.)  
**

The last time Sherlock had come through the door carrying something that wasn't Chinese food, it had been a spleen and a foot. The time before that, half of a human brain. Not to mention the time with the head. At this point, John considered himself fully desensitized to whatever sort of atrocity his flatmate brought home with him. So when he heard a series of kicks at the door he assumed that Sherlock had his hands full of some other ill-gotten trophies from Bart's, and simply let out an exasperated sigh.

He ran through a quick mental list of what was currently in the refrigerator and how much he cared if it was sitting next to another head. The Thai in there was bordering on two weeks old. Probably had to throw that out anyway. Oh, but there was that homemade lasagna from Mrs. Hudson in there. That would have to be moved. He was not missing out on a nice lasagna because Sherlock did not understand the concept of keeping the edible stuff away from the body parts.

Another impatient kick told him that he was being too slow. John grumbled something unintelligable under his breath and took his sweet time setting down his cup of tea and folding up his newspaper.

"John! Door!"

"All right, all right, I'm coming." Oh, there were also some leftovers from Angelos. Might slip that into the crisper drawer. He was planning on bringing it to work on Tuesday. Otherwise, though, there was probably enough room for a few body parts. As long as it wasn't mutilated testicles again. If anything is going to put one off of their apatite immediately, it's mutilated testicles sitting next to the loaf of bread.

However, when he pulled open the door, it was quite obvious that Sherlock had not brought home more body parts. In his hands he held a large, square container, covered with a cloth. On top of it was balanced a bag of peat and a clear plastic tupperware dish inexplicably bouncing with live crickets.

John stepped aside to let his flatmate in, allowing the confusion to bleed through into his expression. So much for expecting feet. "What are the crickets for?"

"For it to eat. Obviously." Sherlock replied with his usual patience. Or lack thereof. Oh, yes, for it to eat. Of course he should have immediately known that.

"It?" he followed Sherlock into the kitchen. The covered container was already being set down on the table, which was miraculously free of any sort of chemical substances. John's handiwork, thank you very much. And he wasn't entirely pleased that his hard-won eating space was now being taken up by a... something.

Cage, he realized. The container must hold some sort of live animal. That had to be what the crickets were for. A reptile, then? Mice don't eat crickets.

Sherlock noticed him staring incredulously at the covered cage. He couldn't help it. He just really couldn't imagine Sherlock taking care of any sort of pet.

"Case." Sherlock offered, as if it explained everything. (Which, at this point, John was ready to accept that it just about did. Really, the man could probably get away with anything if he just mentioned that it was for a 'case' or an 'experiment.' John wished that he had had such an iron excuse when he was in high school to explain some of the more embarrassing shit he'd been caught doing.)

"Lizard?" he guessed. He wasn't entirely certain as to why Sherlock would need a lizard to help him solve a case, but then again, he hadn't ever fully understood why he had needed to harpoon a dead pig either. Better not to ask sometimes.

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. What would I do with a lizard? I need to study the urticating hairs of the Chilean Rose. It could be integral to the Westhall case."

"Chilean Rose?"

John's mind connected the dots just a moment slower than it took for him to remove the cloth.

He froze and stared in budding horror at the fuzzy, low-slung body trying to crawl up the side of the aquarium. At the sudden intrusion of light it dropped to the bottom and scurried to a corner, pressing itself against the wall, drawing its long legs close.

The corner closest to John. Right next to his hand. It was _right next to his hand._

He jerked back as if burned, eyes never leaving the hairy little monstrosity in the aquarium. For what it was worth, he didn't shriek. Nor his he shout, flail, or curse in every language he knew. (Which wasn't many, but it would have gotten point across.)

Tarantula. Chilean Rose-haired Tarantula. Sherlock had brought home a fucking _tarantula_.

Sherlock was animatedly explaining something about how someone's pet tarantula in some case could provide some alibi for some sort of _there was a tarantula in John's home._ There was a giant hairy spider in his flat and _oh god it was staring at him._

Sherlock stopped talking long enough to tap the aquarium experimentally. The spider pushed itself further into the corner and reared its front legs menacingly. Sherlock chuckled. John, however, let out a thoroughly undignified croak. The fangs were moving, _they were moving._

Grey eyes narrowed at him over the top of the aquarium as Sherlock's attention was deviated from the tarantula. John wanted to glare at him, but couldn't force himself to tear his eyes away from the thing twitching behind the glass. If he could see it, he was fine. It couldn't go anywhere. For god's sake, he needed to just grow up, it couldn't get out of the glass. It wasn't going to _dear god it moved again!_

"John." he said lowly. "Are you afraid of spiders?" his voice was practically dripping with a very dangerous interest. _No_, John knew where this was going. For the love of Christ, he was _not_ going to let Sherlock experiment with the probably fascinating psychological aspect of irrational phobias. Especially not his. Especially not with a giant fucking tarantula.

Best to nip the thing in the bud. Quickly.

"Get rid of it" he commanded.

Sherlock looked at him curiously. "Really, it's only a tarantula. There's no reason to be frightened of it. Roses aren't even poisonous."

"I don't care, I want it gone."

"But I need it!" Irritation had begun to creep its way into Sherlock's voice, leaving his whine just a shade away from petulant.

"Take it somewhere else. It's not staying in the flat."

Sherlock let out a dramatic huff. "For god's sake, John, it's small and furry. Like a kitten. Or a hamster."

John's face darkened. "Hamsters have only four legs." And only Sherlock Holmes could compare a tarantula to a kitten. Really, the way that man's mind worked...

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "It's the legs that bother you?" He tapped the glass again, a bit harder than before. Thoroughly cowed, the spider scuttled as far away as it could. John squinted, feeling vaguely sick.

"Yes, Sherlock, the legs! Jesus, don't do that again!" his hands were balled tightly beside him. He could feel the nails digging into his palms. "I don't like the way that they move." Or look. Or bite things. Or exist.

This elicited a smug smirk from his flatmate. "John Watson, war hero, man of action- deathly afraid of the same thing as thousands of simpering teenage girls."

John threw his hands up. "Yes! I don't like them! I don't bloody like spiders! Now _get rid of it!_"

_The Personal Blog of John H Watson:_

_December 6_

"Untitled Post"

Sherlock, I am SERIOUS. I'm not coming downstairs until it's gone.

Comments:

Oh dear, what's he done now?

-Mike Stamford _Dec. 6. 18:24_

He brought a tarantula into the house. And unless he takes it out of the house, he'll be finding a new flatmate. I hope that it can pay rent. And cook. And clean up after his messes.

-John Watson _Dec. 6. 18:26_

I find your hatred for dear Rosy unwarranted and offensive.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 6. 18:27_

I thought that you said it was a male?

-John Watson _Dec. 6. 18:32_

Rosy can be a boy's name.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 6. 18:33_

You just couldn't think of anything better to named a Rose-haired tarantula, could you?

-John Watson _Dec. 6. 18:35_

John, please recall that my brother's name is Mycroft. Sensible naming conventions do not exist in the Holmes blood. It was either that or Gladstone, and that seemed a tad posh for a spider.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 6. 18:36_

Aww, sounds like someone's sleeping on the sofa tonight! You're lucky that John loves you so much. Anyone else would have gotten clocked for that. I remember teasing him with spiders all the time back when we were kids! It was so much fun!... I have apologized for those years of torment, haven't I?

-Harry Watson _Dec. 6. 19:18_

Oh, god, I remember when we put a camel spider in his bed. Hilarious. Except that he had a gun that time. Sherlock, you're lucky that John doesn't still own a gun.

-Bill Murray _Dec. 6. 19:42_

I still hold a burning grudge against you all.

-John Watson _Dec. 6. 20:03_

Also, Harry, do I really have to keep telling you that we're not together?!

-John Watson _Dec. 6. 20:03_

Fine. It's dead. Happy? And just as I was beginning to form an attachment. I had _named_ him. You made me murder my own pet, John. I hope you understand that.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 6. 20:14_

And people call me the sociopath.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 6. 20:15_

Oh dear! I just heard shouting! Are you boys alright?

-Mrs Hudson _Dec. 7. 6:32_

YOU SAID YOU GOT RID OF IT!

-John Watson _Dec. 7. 6:50_

I said that I killed it. But I still need to study the hairs. I figured that I could do that with a dead specimen easily enough. See? That's me compromising. I just put it in the fridge for safekeeping. Anyway, I thought that the problem was the legs? It's legs aren't moving anymore. Ergo, it should be fine to look at. Now stop being immature and open the door.

-Sherlock Holmes _Dec. 7. 6:52_

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Wow.

-Mike Stamford _Dec. 7. 9:42_

Sorry folks. Forgot that children read this blog. I'll try to be more careful next time. Greg, please do not call Sherlock in for any cases for a bit, he's been injured falling down the stairs.

-John Watson. _Dec. 7. 13:53_

Oh, I thought that we were saying that I ran into a door?

-Sherlock Holmes_ Dec. 7. 14:02_

Told you he'd clock you.

-Harry Watson _Dec. 7. 15:15_


End file.
